The Eight Years We Wasted
by Everliah
Summary: "There was so much time. What did we do with it?" "We wasted it. We were foolish, Draco. Eight years and we lost them. We succumbed to our petty hatred. We'd have probably died with it." "And now?" "Now, I say we live long enough to rectify the eight years we wasted." - (A short fic showing eight years of Draco and Hermione's lives and the progression of their interactions)
1. Second Year

**AN: Hiiii! So either some of you are here from The Light, or you're just Dramione trash (wooo! me too!). This is just an idea that I had, and it's not necessarily against canon, more... what I imagine went on behind the scenes, or at least would've had certain situations been different. The story is going to be told in snippets, showing the development of their interactions. Thank you very very much for reading beforehand:)**

 **Second Year**

It all began with Hermione Granger in the library.

This was not an unusual sight, not in the slightest. On the contrary, it could be said that Hermione Granger outside of the library was more peculiar for the eyes, as the girl was scarcely seen anywhere else. She wore her thirteen years daintily, and her youth was reflected only in her small stature, for there was nothing young in Hermione's eyes. Despite having barely lived, Hermione Granger had seen things that most full-grown wizards and witches could never dream to see in their lifetime. One of these things was an attempt of the mass-murdering dark wizard, Lord Voldemort, to acquire a magical stone that granted immortality, whilst simultaneously trying to kill her best friend last year. He had failed, thank God- that would not have helped to convince her parents Hogwarts was safe. Another was the opening of a fabled chamber, created by Salazar Slytherin, to purge the school of people from non-magical families- people like her- through the use of an indistinguishable mythical monster. She supposed this was another small detail she could leave out when her parents asked how school was. This really wasn't how she had expected her first years at Hogwarts to go like.

The latter of unspeakable things which Hermione Granger had seen was the very reason she found herself in the library, alone; eyes scanning the spines of the books on the very fringes of the Restricted Section, hoping something would jump out at her. Eventually, Hermione sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she'd just have to collect all the books that poked her fancy and skim through them (which was Hermione for _'read meticulously, word-for-word'_ ). She was looking for something; she just wasn't exactly sure what that something was. She knew, however, that she'd know once she found it.

And so, Hermione did just that, retrieving as many thick volumes she could carry and dumping them on the nearest table, where she threw herself, pretending her frazzled nerves were not screaming inside of her, and opened up the first book.

This one wasn't overly fascinating, written by some dreary bloke who had isolated himself to write about monsters hundreds of years ago, but she forced herself to continue reading, flicking through the pages and committing every single word to memory. Hermione went to turn the page, eyes scanning the one she was on, but finding nothing of interest, when she stopped-

She frowned, shaking her head to clear it. Then, Hermione swallowed and read aloud, voice just above a whisper, "'Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size, and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it-'"

"I thought you were smarter than this, Mudblood," his scathing voice jolted her out of the book, and she gasped, ripping the page she was reading out, and slamming it shut.

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Hermione snapped, jumping to her feet.

He appeared at the end of the row, all cool and effortless like his unaffected twelve year old self always spat. His hair was platinum, shining almost white in the light, and slicked back. His face, a pale and porcelain edge of marble, was tilted in her direction. Hermione thought it was a shame, as she looked at his blue eyes and statuesque features, how beauty was too often wasted.

"I mean," Malfoy said, slowly, as if her request for an explanation was irritating, "that you, of all people, should know better than to wander alone in the castle. Especially at a time like this."

Hermione tried not to show just how much his words got to her, but she bristled nevertheless. His lip curled.

"Be careful, Malfoy," she warned, eyes flashing. "If someone overheard, they might think you care."

Malfoy's face dropped and his cheeks tinged a light pink. He snarled, "Who'd have thought? The Mudblood has a sense of humour."

He stepped closer to her and Hermione tightened her fist around the crumpled page in her hand. He was so close to her now, too close, so that she could feel the hotness of his breath against her freckled cheeks. Malfoy's blue eyes were cold, his sneer malicious. "I'm waiting for it to get you, Granger. Maybe it will actually succeed this time."

Hermione stared at him, and the horror crawling up her throat rendered her incapacitated, frozen to the spot. She snapped out of it, pushing him away from her. "You disgust me," she hissed.

Malfoy stumbled backwards, and once he'd caught himself again, he just stared at her. Hermione tried to control the way the blood rushed to her cheeks, and willed her fury to overtake her unease so that he wouldn't see how much his words had affected her. She swallowed, ignoring the almost painful beat of her heart and reaching up (her hands were shaking) to pat her hair down. It had become a frizzy mess.

Malfoy scoffed, and he reached for something. Hermione forced herself to continue what she was doing, hoping he didn't notice the way she hesitated, the way her eyes flicked to him when he moved. He didn't do anything though, simply retrieved a small, hand-held mirror from his bag and slid it along the table to her.

"Here," he said unpleasantly, nose wrinkling. "Sort that birds nest of a head out before you leave, won't you?"

His eyes ran over her one more time, and Hermione clenched her fists at her side to refrain from punching him, before he left. She snatched the mirror off the table, cursing him under her breath. Once she was sure he had gone for good, Hermione opened up her fist and re-read the passage of text. A Basilisk. King of Serpents. Well, that certainly sounded like a monster Salazar Slytherin himself would endorse. Perhaps Malfoy kept one for a pet, she snorted at the thought.

Hermione continued reading:

 _-the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death_ -

 ** _Murderous stare._**

She almost gasped, almost dropped the mirror in her other hand. She'd found it. She'd found the monster. Hermione read it again, quickly, just to make sure… but it had to be! There was no other explanation!

She stopped short, a deep frown marring her face. But how was it getting around? A great big snake like that couldn't very well just slither any which way it liked! It would be seen in a heartbeat! So then-?

The answer presented itself, fell through the disrupted puzzle pieces of her mind. _Of course_ \- Harry had heard it in the walls. She put the mirror down and grabbed a quill from her bag, dipping it sloppily in the ink, and scribbled:

 _Pipes!_

Hermione couldn't contain the grin that stretched across her face. She shoved her things back into her bag, knowing that she had to tell Harry and Ron! But as she headed towards the library door, she paused.

She looked behind her, and her eyes found the small, circular mirror, still sitting on the table. Hermione felt her heart speed up in her chest.

 _-the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death-_

She took a few steps forward and grabbed the mirror. Just in case. It was very pretty, small and ornate, with almost painfully scrupulous detail. It would be a shame to leave it here...

She had to admit it, Malfoy had taste. But then again, Hermione reckoned she would too if she was as rich and spoilt as he was. She almost smirked. It looked as though Malfoy wouldn't get his wish anytime soon. She left the library-

Hermione Granger survived only because of the mirror she held in her hand. Malfoy visited her just once.


	2. Third Year

**Third Year- The Punch**

He was seething. Actually seething. Crabbe and Goyle had (for once) had the common sense to leave him far alone, and he stormed away from them. Draco couldn't believe it. The audacity of her! How dare she put her hands on him! How dare she speak to him like that!

His cheek still stung, painfully, almost agonisingly, and he was forced to admit that Granger had one hell of a punch.

It wasn't his fault the bloody bird had decided to try and kill him! The monster deserved to die- his arm still didn't lie straight!

Draco slammed the dormitory door shut, throwing himself down on his bed. He wanted to scream into his pillow. The Mudblood was _infuriating_. All she'd ever done since First Year was wheedle her way under his skin, and nibble away until his very last nerve was raw and pulsing.

It was a shame she hadn't died last year. Maybe then, he'd finally have a year of peace and quiet, without her troll-like face and grating voice invading his life every minute of every day. What Draco loathed most was that, despite her plainness and irritating personality, whenever his father asked him about his classes, everything always came back to her. Or Potter.

He always ended up moaning about the prissy little know-it-all Mudblood. His father had eventually raised an eyebrow and drawled that if he hadn't known any better, he would've thought he fancied the girl. Draco had gaped at him, then demanded furiously that he wouldn't touch her with a twenty foot pole. The small smirk on his father's face had made him hate her more.

It didn't help that this year, she seemed to be everywhere he turned. She was like a flea; no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't shake her off.

Draco couldn't lie still, and he pushed himself back off the bed. He didn't know why (though it could have something to do with the fact his cheek was _throbbing_ ) but his heart was beating so hard against his chest, it felt like it would break his ribcage. His anger coiled tight, shooting down his legs and arms, making his head thud.

He left the dormitory, ignoring everyone who tried to engage him in conversation, as he stormed from the Common Room. Draco made his way up from the Dungeons, because the stifling darkness just seemed to enhance his fury.

He rounded the corner and he felt his lips tighten; his eye twitched.

For there she was, bloody Granger. She looked righteous, cloak billowing out behind her, and she didn't even seem to notice him coming towards her, never mind care for the fact that she had punched him in the face earlier on.

"Granger," Draco spat.

Hermione stopped, wrenched from her no doubt irritating inner monologue. Her eyes widened, then narrowed when they fell on him. He noticed her lip was swollen, her cheek cut; her blood was as red as his.

"Malfoy," she replied, just as coolly. "How's your cheek? I think my knuckles have bruised."

He couldn't prevent the sneer from morphing his face, and he was in front of her in a second. Though he didn't touch her, his fingers itched to wrap around her wrists and squeeze tightly, or tangle in her jumper and shake her till she trembled.

Draco's eyes were cold, infinitely cruel, and they bored into her. Hermione raised her chin.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" he hissed.

She hardly batted an eyelash. It was hard to take him seriously, as his thirteen years were baggy on his frame, like he had yet to grow into them.

"Or what?" demanded Hermione. "You're _vile_. You're a cockroach! How am _I_ to blame if I treat you as such?"

She shoved him away from her, but remained long enough to say heatedly, "If you want to be treated like a human being, start acting like one!"

And she began walking away from him.

Draco stared after her and for some reason, it infuriated him more. She was so quick to dismiss him, to brush him off like he was barely worth a throwaway second of her precious time.

He started walking after her, quickening his pace so she couldn't disappear.

"You're a filthy Mudblood," Draco spat viciously. He saw her shoulders tense but she continued moving. He spoke more rapidly, the insults poisoning his tongue, oozing from his lips like he was trying to be rid of them as quickly as possible. "Do you know that, Granger? One day, you're going to bow down to your superiors! You'll see! You are worth _nothing_ more than the dirt on my shoes- less, even. These shoes cost more than your whole dirty Muggle house-!"

It all happened in an instant. Hermione spun around, hair flying loose, eyes flashing. The words dented the air, heavy and penetrating, and the hatred dripped from every syllable.

"I wish Buckbeak had killed you!" she screamed at him.

Draco stopped.

They stared at one another from separate ends of the corridor: his pale skin a stark contrast to her brown; his pure blood the very opposite of her tainted; his morals looser than even the devils, made obvious from the fact that hers were saint-like.

And for some reason, one which he could not fathom, when Hermione Granger stormed off, her words still ringing in the empty space between them, he felt the blow lingering.

It was worse than being punched.


	3. Fourth Year

**Fourth Year- The Quidditch World Cup**

He saw her first at the Quidditch World Cup, and he couldn't stop the sneer from curling his lips. She was with Weasley- no shock there- and Draco figured she'd ruin even this for him.

His black eye hadn't settled, and when his father managed to get out of him how he had acquired it, he had refused to let him cover it up or heal it with magic. It was an insult, frankly, and he noticed the way his mother's lips would purse when she saw it. He hadn't had the guts to tell his Aunt Bella the truth when she'd demanded to know what happened to him over dinner, and it seemed neither did his father, who merely curled his lip behind his goblet.

Draco couldn't help but stare at her. She looked too happy, and her laugh bubbled from her throat, exploding in the air like fireworks. He scowled.

"Don't pout, Draco," his father drawled cuttingly, and Draco snapped his eyes away. His father raised a blonde eyebrow, gaze drifting upwards. His smirk was small but cruel. "My, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was under your skin."

"She is _not_ -" he started to spit, but realised he was far too defensive. He stopped. "Well, it's a good thing you do know better."

His voice was bland, though his father saw right through it.

Lucius commented, "She's not as plain as you made her out to be."

Draco daren't reply. His father hummed in finality, looking away.

"Such a shame," he said.

The topic had been dropped after that because Draco didn't like the swirl of unease that coiled through his stomach. He shook his head, sparing a final glance up at her, and pushed her from his mind. He was successful in that aspect at least. He didn't think about her at all for the rest of the day, not when Krum caught the snitch for Bulgaria, not when Ireland won anyway, not even during the celebrations that followed.

Draco did, however, think about her when a scream broke through the laughter and cheers.

His blood ran cold, and her face appeared so abruptly behind his eyelids that it was gone when he next blinked. He ran to the front of his tent, shoving open the flap. His heart dropped to his gut like a stone in water.

There was ruin everywhere. Tents were on fire, _people_ were on fire, running and screaming. Crowds surged this way and that, trying to escape the labyrinthine campsite in an attempt to flee the throng of people dressed in black, silver masks glinting wickedly in the torchlight. _Death Eaters._

Draco didn't wait. Though he knew he was probably the safest one here, he could only think of one thing. He swallowed thickly, feeling his legs move of their own accord, so fast he stumbled over pegs in the ground and rocks and- was that a body?

No. He didn't stop to check. He sped up his pace, slipping into the shadows of the forest, pretending the harsh and panicked pants he could hear weren't his own. He had to find them. He had to find _her-_

And it would seem luck, or fate, or whatever twisted fuck you wanted to blame it on, was on his side.

Draco heard Weasley first, and his feet stopped in their tracks, suddenly numb and heavy. They were walking towards him, swerving round the thin trees that groped skyward, away from the sudden infestation of the forest.

He cursed himself, lips curling. The abhorrence in his gut, however, was not enough to prevent him from stepping out of the darkness and into their path.

The Golden Trio halted. They stared at him; three pairs of eyes, each different then the last, with varying degrees of mistrust and curiosity and loathing. Draco avoided hers.

"What are _you_ doing here, Malfoy?" asked Weasley suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be in line with daddy-?"

"Granger, they're after Muggles," he cut him off, a sick jolt of pleasure he entertained for only a second when Weasley's ears went pink, before he looked at the girl in question. "D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because if you do, hang around... they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."

She just stared at him.

He could see Weasley fuming, his entire face slowly but surely turning that ugly pink. He couldn't understand why she was still here, and for some reason, he felt panic jolt through him, and it made the scathing in his voice tremble. "What part of that isn't getting through to you? They're coming this way-"

"If I didn't know you, Malfoy," said Potter. Draco's eyes nearly rolled back into his head out of pure exasperation. "I'd say you sound concerned."

"Not in this lifetime, Potter," he spat. Granger was still just staring at him. There was something about the way she looked though, like she could see right through him. Draco didn't know why this unnerved him- he didn't know what there was to see. "I just want to keep my breakfast down."

"Why, you bastard," snarled Weasley.

Draco's eyes cut to him. "It's like you're not listening to me. Take your girlfriend, and run, Weasel. I know a few of my father's friends who would love to show her what Muggles are good for."

Potter had to restrain Weasley from launching himself at him, but Draco was watching Granger. She looked ashen, like she understood that parading her around in her knickers was not the worst thing those people could do. He was glad it was finally getting through to her. He'd seen her blood before, and it unnerved him how red it was. Draco did not want to see it spilled again.


End file.
